


Public Indecency

by convolutedConcussion



Category: Wynonna Earp (TV)
Genre: Author is Shit at Tags, F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 09:09:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13120605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/convolutedConcussion/pseuds/convolutedConcussion
Summary: Anonymous said:Prompt: Dolls touches Wynonna under the dinner table during dinner with everyone





	Public Indecency

Squirming in front of the mirror, Wynonna tries for several minutes to get the back of her dress zipped before admitting defeat and shoving the door open and searching for Dolls.  She finds him frowning at some History Channel show about cryptids she’s seen before.  She takes a moment to really appreciate the sight of him in a suit—she doesn’t get to see it so often these days, and she realizes now how foolish she was to take it for granted at the beginning—before she clears her throat and asks, “So, is Bigfoot real?”

“Yeah, but they’re in the wrong mountain range,” he responds in a tone that makes it hard to parse whether or not he’s joking.  She bites her lip when he turns and his eyes travel down the length of her body, dress feeling too thin suddenly under his gaze, all flowing lace and daring neckline.  “Jesus, Earp,” he mutters as he steps closer, hand big and hot on her hip.

“I need you to do me,” she breathes teasingly, arching up for a quick peck before turning.  He takes his sweet damn time zipping up the back of her dress, and she feels the dry press of his lips to her bare neck.  “I bet we have time for a quickie before dinner,” she offers as his hands slide around her waist.

“Tempting,” he laughs, “But your sister would murder me if we’re late for dinner.”

Frowning, she twists in his grasp and winds her arms around his neck and pouts epically.  “You’re such a wet blanket,” she says.

“Because I don’t want to die,” he snorts.

“She wouldn’t actually _kill_ you,” she says softly, fingers sliding down the center of his chest—she’s glad he went with the blue shirt, he looks _amazing_ in blue, but she also kind of regrets it precisely because he looks amazing in it.  “I don’t think she’d actually kill you.  I mean she did almost kill me that one time, but she didn’t know it was me.”

His brow furrows and he starts to respond but seems to think better of it.  “Are you ready to go?” he asks instead.

“I _guess_ ,” she sighs, “If you’re not gonna—”

He surges forward to kiss her, hard and open and so hot she forgets everything but the taste of him.  Smiling into his lips, she hums and curls her fingers into his starched collar.  She whines when he pulls away and whispers, “Let’s go.”

With a put-upon sigh, she takes a step back and takes his hand when he offers it.

“Look less like you’re going to your own funeral,” he says.  “We’re going to dinner, not to your execution.”

“Listen, you don’t get to look like that and then make me go out when I’d very much prefer you bend me over the nearest surface,” she replies pointedly, but she grins and that seems to satisfy him.  Her heels wobble on the uneven driveway as they walk down to the SUV.  “So, that’s a no on bending me over the nearest surface?”

“Patience is a virtue—a couple hours, tops,” he mutters, exaggeratedly exasperated as he bumps his lips to her temple and hands her into the passenger seat.  She pulls a face and yanks the door shut. 

The drive to the restaurant feels like it takes roughly four hours—it’s barely one, because it’s not like Purgatory has a place worth dressing up for and Waverly had been _insistent_ and Wynonna never was any good at denying her anything she really wanted.  Plus, she can admit that this is the sort of thing that grownups do, and getting out of the house—and out of Purgatory—is good for all of them, even if they never get quite ballsy enough to leave the Triangle.  Besides, she really cannot emphasize enough that she _really_ appreciates getting to see Dolls in a suit.

The place has _valet parking_ , which Wynonna mocks mercilessly as they wait for their turn.  “You may actually like this place,” Dolls says patiently.

“Unrealistic, lower your expectations,” she counters dryly.  At the face he makes, she offers a small, quiet smile that’s really only _sort of_ mocking and brings the back of his hand to her lips.  They end up waiting in front of the restaurant for, like, twenty minutes.  “We _definitely_ had time for a quickie,” she scolds as she catches sight of her sister’s Jeep.

He doesn’t bother to respond, which is probably wise, and she allows herself to be distracted by how unfairly gorgeous both Waverly _and_ Nicole look.

“You guys look so good I wanna throw cold spaghetti at you,” she moans mournfully when they get closer.

“Thanks, I guess?” Nicole replies dubiously.

Wynonna winks, but then Doc and Jeremy get there and Waves complains that she’s _starving_.  Inside is the kind of warmly and intimately-lit places that’s _just_ pretentious enough to let them charge sixty bucks for an entrée, which gives her a pang in her chest a little bit.  Her eyebrows jump when Dolls pulls her chair out for her, and his eyes crinkle but the rest of his face stays carefully blank.  She listens to him go over wines with Nicole and tries to pretend it doesn’t sound like Greek to her.  His hand covers her knee under the table as they make a decision, orders bourbon, straight, and Doc does the same.  She thinks Jeremy asks for water, but Dolls’ finger has started to trace little circles where her dress has ridden up, just a little, and it’s surprisingly distracting.  When she looks over, he’s peering down at the menu, but she catches the subtle curl of his mouth that tells her he knows _exactly_ what he’s doing.  As their drinks are delivered, she curls her own fingers around his wrist.

There’s a sort of thrill when his hand slides upward—just a few inches, enough to make her feel hot all over—and drags the skirt of her dress up with it.

“Lamb would pair well with the bourbon,” he says lowly, voice deceptively disinterested.

“Sure,” she whispers, casting her eyes around the table.  She feels like he’s being really obvious—the others should definitely know what’s going on, they’re gonna get caught and that shouldn’t be turning her on _at all_ —but Waves and Nicole are making goo-goo eyes at each other and Doc seems to be caught up in something Jeremy’s saying.  “What are you getting?” she asks, trying to stay casual in spite of her heating cheeks.

“I was thinking the scallops,” he replies, finally looking up, eyes dark and warm enough to make her heart hammer.

“Had you pegged as a prime rib guy,” she murmurs, tilting her head thoughtfully.  “Something about dragons and meat…” she trails off and her breath catches when his nails drag lightly on her inner thigh.  “You’re the _worst_ ,” she whispers.

“Dunno what you’re talking about,” he says with a wolfish grin as she takes a gulp of her drink.

After ordering their food, Wynonna makes a concerted effort to pay attention to the conversations around her, but she only catches bits and pieces here and there.  When their salads come out, she thinks for half a moment that she’ll get some reprieve—it’s a foolish thought, really, and she should know better, because no one really needs more than one hand to eat salad.  She scoots forward in her chair a little and crosses her ankles underneath, stabbing her fork into a chunk of peach and something green that she knows isn’t lettuce but didn’t pay enough attention to to name. 

“Wyn?  Did that salad say something to offend you?” Nicole asks from across the table.

Feeling suddenly exposed, she forces herself to stop scowling.  “Uh, yeah, and it was so vulgar even _I_ don’t feel comfortable repeating it.” 

“It must’ve been real bad then,” she smiles.

“You have no idea,” Wynonna replies breathlessly.  She leans into Dolls’ space to whisper, “I am gonna make you regret this when we get home.  I’m gonna make you beg, you’re gonna—” she loses track of where she was going with that when he licks his lips, which is more than a little unfair.

“I’m sorry, you were saying?” he prompts, hand sliding back down to her knee.

“You’re a dick,” she sings sweetly under her breath.

He just hums around a sip of white wine.

And, honestly, she’s not dumb enough to think he’s _done_ —she’s happy enough to get a break not to worry about that much.  When she thinks he’s not looking, she steals a chunk of tomato off of his plate.  She pretends not to notice the way his fingers stroke back upward until they start to go dangerously high, pushing her dress up even more.  Scowling, she tries not to be too obvious when she grabs his hand and shoves it back down to a slightly less scandalous level—not that she’s opposed to scandal, but she’d prefer not to go full _The Ugly Truth_ in front of her sister.  She shoots him a sharp look, but he plays unrepentant very well.

Not a moment too soon, another drink is delivered.  She damn near drinks the whole thing in one quick swallow.  _That,_ at least, Doc notices, eyebrow quirking.  “What?” she mumbles, “Not every day we get the good stuff.”

“No, it is not,” he agrees, but he looks a little suspicious.

There has never been a moment when Wynonna thought she’d be thanking whatever god will listen for the sight of seared scallops artfully arranged amongst what the menu described as a _delicate parsnip puree_ and _grilled haricots verts,_ but that’s just what her life has become.  It’s just that dinner should offer some actual distraction from the torture he’s putting her through.  And, for a good moment, she’s right, because he takes his hand away and she’s able to breathe again.

Just as she’s taking a bite of her own entrée, though, his fingertips brush her just hard enough over her dress to draw a small whimper out of her.

“Good lamb?” he asks dryly.

She feels the others’ eyes on her as she swallows and chokes out a quick, “Unexpectedly delicious.”  Across the table, she sees her sister look between the two of them pointedly before going back to her own meal.  “You’re gonna get us caught,” she whispers.  “I can’t get arrested for public indecency again.”

“Again?” he repeats.

“That’s what I said,” she smirks.

It takes everything in her to keep carefully still and keep composed as his touches get bolder.  She’s grudgingly impressed that his face shows no hint of what he’s _doing to her_ just under the table as he eats, and chats, and otherwise appears for all intents and purposes to be a totally normal person whose sole purpose in life isn’t driving her up a damn wall.  If she couldn’t see his arm disappear under the table, she’d almost think it were two different people.  Vaguely, she’s aware that the lamb is really good—it’s tender and juicy and just right and she’d love to be able to appreciate it but she’s barely able to focus on keeping quiet, on keeping still, let alone the finer nuances of the dinner before her.  He alternates between caressing up her inner thigh, painfully slowly, each time inching her dress up a little higher, and slipping his fingers over where she’s already aching and slick and god _damn_ she’s ready to start begging soon. 

When the server asks if they wanted dessert, she can’t help her hurried, “No,” even as she hears Dolls asking about the raspberry mousse and she’s never felt more betrayed.

“Since when do you turn down dessert?” Nicole scowls.

“Yeah, are you feeling okay?” Dolls asks with a private, cocky smile.

“I’m just—I’m just _full_ , jeez,” she huffs.  Which isn’t even true—she watches someone at another table crack the sugar glass on a crème brulee and realizes she could totally destroy one herself.  So, in spite of the fact that all she _really_ wants is to grab Dolls, drag him outside, and beg him to pull off the highway on the way back to Purgatory and fuck her hard, she orders one and shoots him a rueful glare.  “I hate so much of what you choose to do,” she mumbles as her empty dinnerplate is taken away.

She supposes the way he squeezes her leg is meant to be comforting, but it really just makes her think of the grip he has on her when he—

“I hadn’t noticed,” he says.  With a sigh, she presses her knees together and traps his fingers for the space of a moment, but they wiggle and that’s decidedly _worse_.

While they wait for dessert, she makes another attempt at concentrating on what’s being said—Jeremy’s talking about _something_ , and she realizes a little late he’s explaining the plot of some video game.  She’s completely lost (maybe if she’d been listening from the jump she’d get it, but somehow she doubts it), but he’s excited, and it’s hard to find fault in that.  She looks to Nicole to see if she’s following any better, but the perplexed smile she gives her is enough to tell her not.  Letting the last shreds of her concentration wane, she props her chin on her hand and casts a sideways glance at Dolls, who catches her eye and favors her with a flash of a real, warm smile, the kind that makes her stomach quiver, and she doesn’t even notice when the server comes back until he steals a blueberry off her plate.  In retaliation, she swipes her spoon through the delicate mousse in front of him and winks as she licks it off.

“Ew, Wynonna, seriously?” Waverly scolds.  “Can you save the weird sex stuff for, like, not group dinners?”

“Oh, were you trying to be sexy?” Dolls asks innocently.

“You’re gonna eat those words,” she replies loftily, sucking the last traces of sweet raspberry off her spoon before tackling her own dessert. 

“I’ll eat more than that,” he whispers close to her ear, making her pause, shocked, before she shakes her head and kicks at his ankle. 

It does give her a little extra incentive to finish quickly.

“I thought you were full,” Doc teases from her other side.

“Always room for dessert,” she mumbles around her last bite of creamy goodness.

There’s a terrible moment when, asked if they wanted coffee, Dolls pauses thoughtfully and she feels like it’s cruel tactic specifically meant to prolong her anguish, but then he looks across the table at Nicole, Waves, then over to Doc and Jeremy, and seems to take their noncommittal responses as a no and passes—thank _God_.  Still, paying seems to take years, and he’s gone back to tracing patterns on her skin, hidden by the tablecloth, and as a consequence making her brain feel a little bit fried.  By the time she stands, her knees feel almost wobbly, and she self-consciously checks that her skirt falls to cover her as she goes, worried about giving the restaurant a show.  She makes a comment about being in a food coma as they walk outside to wait for their cars to be brought up, leaning into Dolls as she listens to Waverly talk about _how good_ dinner was and how they _have_ to do this more often, watches the way Nicole smiles at her fondly.  She worries a little bit for the fate of the woman’s wallet, honestly, because she can’t deny Waves any more than she can.

But then Dolls’ SUV is pulled up first and she’s never been happier to see a vehicle in her _life_ and practically runs to it.

“You know,” she says quietly, “I’m pretty sure there’s a motel nearby that has hourly rates.”

“Wow, that’s an incredibly attractive offer, but I’m gonna have to pass,” he laughs as he pulls out of the parking lot.  “You’ll live for another hour.”

“Will I?” she demands skeptically, letting her fingers dip under the neckline of her dress.  At a red light, she lunges across the console to lick a hungry kiss into his mouth, humming at the lingering taste of raspberry and sugar and cream.  Her strokes up his thigh, fingertips following the line of his inseam, and she swallows his low rumble when her hand covers his cock through his pants.  She plays with the idea of just cutting to the chase and unzipping his pants when the car behind them honks two quick beeps.  Laughing, she falls back into her own seat, satisfied when she looks at his dazed face.  “At least pull into a rest stop—please, you’ve been driving me _crazy_ all night long,” she pleads, letting her hands roam the thin lace and thinner backing covering her breasts.

“Trust me, you’ll survive,” he says.

“I don’t trust you at _all_ after tonight,” she moans as one hand slips down her belly.  When that fails to elicit any satisfactory response, she huffs a sigh and hikes the skirt of her dress up to hook her thumbs in the waistband of her panties.

“ _What_ are you doing?” he asks, voice a touch higher than normal.

“What does it _look_ like I’m doing?” she responds, briefly getting caught on her heels before flinging the meager fabric into the back seat—she thinks, _Remember to grab those before work in the morning_ , knowing she’ll forget anyway—as she tosses a glance his way.  “Eyes on the road, boss,” she reminds him sweetly as she strokes up her open thighs.

“I want to remind you that you’re an adult,” he says pointedly, unbuttoning the top couple buttons of his shirt. 

“Kinda ironic comin’ from the guy who had a hand up my skirt in public the last couple hours,” she mutters.  Tilting her head, she lets her head drop back as she brushes over her slick clit and moans softly.  Her eyes fall shut and she catches her lip between her teeth and, sure, she _may_ be putting on a show—but after what he put her through she _deserves_ a little revenge.  “Oh, God, Dolls,” she whines as she rocks her hips up against her fingers.

When she opens her eyes, she watches his gaze flick from the road to her face to where her dress is bunched up just where her legs meet back to the road, and she watches, with no small amount of satisfaction, as he swallows thickly.  Her lips curl when she hears his low, “Jesus, Wynonna.”

In spite of the fact that she aches to hurry through it—just get herself off so she can end her misery and focus on actually _ruining him_ when they get back home—she takes her time, lets out moan after moan, squeezes her eyes shut as her free hand slips under her dress to squeeze her breast.  She vaguely sort of registers that he’s _definitely_ speeding, realizes dumbly that they’re not that far out anymore, and thinks about chiding him about his driving, but the little shudders of pleasure working up her spine take precedence.  As her toes curl and her heels dig into the floorboard, she feels his hand grasp her knee.  Whimpering, she clutches his wrist and drags his hand between her legs.  She curses, low and raw, when his fingers slip-slide roughly against her before one presses inside.  Back arching, she rocks up, ruts into his palm as his finger thrusts into her, cries out when he adds another.  It’s not nearly enough—not the right angle, can’t really get the good, deep strokes she likes, but after hours of being teased, the thrill of the _possibility_ of getting caught, the aching need drives her closer to the edge. 

She digs her teeth into her palm when she trips over that edge to stifle her whine, clenching her knees together as her hips jerk, riding wave after wave of pleasure until she can’t take it anymore and gasps, “Okay, okay, stop, okay, I’m—”

He laughs, low and sweet, and takes his hand away.  It takes her a long while to be able to form coherent thoughts again, and she doesn’t even know they’re at the homestead until she realizes they’ve stopped moving.

“Did that count as reckless driving?” she asks dazedly, unbuckling and leaning into his space for an open, messy kiss.

“Technically, yes,” he winces exaggeratedly, “But you looked like you needed a hand.”

“Wow,” she says, eyebrows raised.  “That was almost bad enough to kill the mood.”

“Was it?” he asks doubtfully, licking his wet fingers with a quick wink when her mouth falls open.

“No,” she breathes faintly.  “Nope, that was a lie.”  She darts forward for another quick, hard kiss as she rubs her hand over his chest, down his belly, down to his erection pressing hard against his zipper.  “Take me inside,” she whispers against his lips, relishing in the way his breath catches as he nods.  Dragging her teeth over her lip, she watches him get out and make his way around the front of the SUV to get her door, twists and tugs him close when he opens it.  She wraps her legs around his waist and winds her arms around his neck and wriggles until she’s flush against him.

His arms are strong and firm when they wrap around her, but he’s so gentle when he lifts her out of the car something warm bubbles up in her chest.  When she kisses him now, it’s softer, less urgent, even as she wiggles in his grasp.  He carries her to the porch, up the steps, presses her back against the front door.

“Kinda turns me on when you do that,” she murmurs as he rolls against her.

“I know,” he smiles, nipping a line down her throat.  Letting out a soft moan, she tips her head back to bare more of her neck and digs her fingers into his shoulders. 

When she can’t take the too-gentle, too-sweet bites any longer, she urges, “Inside, inside, c’mon.”  The door swings inward and she gasps out a laugh as her stomach swoops when she loses the support at her back—he doesn’t falter, carries her over the threshold easily.  “Like a guy in a good ol’ bodice-ripper,” she sighs with an oversweet grin.

“I will drop you,” he deadpans, kicking the door shut.

“You won’t,” she whispers into his lips.  Still, it feels a little like tempting fate, so she releases her grip on his hips and feels him ease her to her feet.  She gives him a light shove, and he goes easily, knocking into the wall with a lazy, warm smile.  His hands are hot on her hips as he pulls her forward and her own slip up his chest.  Her fingers make quick work of his buttons, and he untucks his shirt.  When he starts to shrug his jacket and shirt off, she stops him with a low, “Wait, no.”

“Wait what?” he frowns.

“Just… leave it on,” she coaxes.

“Is this a thing?  ‘Cause I got more suits, you shoulda just let me know, I’ll go back to wearing them,” he teases.

Humming, she strokes his bare chest and says, “You’re talking your way out of a blow job, so you know.”

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs sweetly. 

Eyes narrowing, she presses into him and asks skeptically, “Are you, though?”  She doesn’t let him respond before grazing her teeth over a spot on his neck that makes him groan.  With a pleased little noise, she lets her hand slip between them, down his belly, and grins when she hears his small, sharp intake of breath.  She takes her time at his throat and his collarbone and his chest, feels him rock up against her as his breath speeds up.

“Could you—” he stops when she pulls back to give him a look.

She brings her hands back up to his shoulders and pulls back just a little, eyebrow cocking.  “You weren’t seriously gonna ask me to, like, _do_ anything, were you?” she demands.

“Of course not,” he says.

“You sure?” she whispers, sugary sweet.  “Weren’t gonna ask me to get on with it?” she coaxes as her nails drag lightly down his chest, catch gently on his nipples.  “’Cause I don’t need to tell you how ridiculous that would be, do I?”  She dips her head to dig her teeth into his chest, feels his groan through her.  As she sinks to her knees, between dropping quick kisses to his stomach, she murmurs, “I don’t really think you deserve this—you _did_ kinda torture me.” 

He’s silent but his barely stifled smirk is unapologetic.

Stroking him through his pants where they’re pulled taut over his cock, she noses his shirt aside to nip and suck his hip and relishes his weak groan as he ruts against her hand.  Her tongue traces the line of his zipper, and her eyes lift to his face, to his parted lips and hot gaze.  Through layers of fabric, she sucks the head of his cock and smirks at his helpless whine.  His fingers tangle in her hair at the back of her head as he rocks his hips forward, and she lets her lips smear over the line of his erection, leaving behind the last traces of her lipstick.  With a quiet noise, she straightens to bite a kiss low on his belly as she goes back to teasing him with too-light caresses and hears him drop his head back against the door.

“You okay up there?” she asks quietly, hands slowing to a stop.

It forces him to respond, a quick, distracted, “Uh-huh.”

She plays with the idea of coaxing a real answer out of him, but she was never so great at teasing as any sort of long game and instead flicks open his button, then drags the zipper down, tooth by tooth, because she likes the frustrated way his eyebrows furrow.  He hisses when she wraps her hand around him in earnest, this time just through his boxers, and she mouths him through the single layer of cotton. 

“Fucking— _Wynonna_ ,” he gasps.

“That can be arranged, if you’re nice,” she says around a laugh.

“I’ll be nice,” he replies, combing through her hair now and tilting her head back.  “I’ll be so, _so_ nice.”

“You sure?” she pouts exaggeratedly, “You weren’t very nice at dinner.”

“I’ll make up for it,” he says, eyes heavy-lidded and hungry.

Satisfied, she drags his boxers down just enough to free him and licks from base to tip, achingly slowly, because she can.  She takes him into her mouth and bobs her head in long, lazy pulls, following with her hand until everything is spit-slick and messy.  Each stroke elicits a moan, the deep rumble egging her on, and she feels him roll his hips in time.  She moans around his cock, looks up just in time to see him bite his lip around a whine.  His fingers tighten in her hair even as she pulls off and makes a show of licking her lips before nosing at his hip with a gentle, curling smile.

 _“Evil,”_ he hisses.

“Patience,” she mocks, biting the skin under her lips.  She shifts a little as her thighs start to burn and knees start to ache before saying sweetly, “I hear it’s a virtue.”  He groans, defeated, and she grins like sunshine before teasing the tip of her tongue around the head of his cock.

For all her scolding about patience, she finds she actually doesn’t want to draw it out much longer—wants to hear him and feel him and taste him—and her hand and lips are firmer, quicker, as she watches the quick, stuttering rise and fall of his chest.  She watches his tongue dart out to wet his lips as he moans, cracked and raw, and she can feel how close he is.  His nails drag over her scalp as he thrusts forward, holding back enough not to gag her, which she thinks is very considerate of him.  Above her, he pants and whines out little curses and pleas and wordless moans.

When he _does_ come, it’s with a wrecked cry that sends a quiver of heat through her.

She swallows if only because she realizes, however distantly, she doesn’t want to have her dress dry-cleaned.  She slows, eases, but doesn’t stop until he pulls weakly at her hair.  There’s throbbing heat between her legs as she swipes at her mouth and lets herself be pulled wobbling to her feet, stoked when he mashes an open kiss into her lips.

“Don’t think that means I forgive you yet,” she mumbles, dragging her teeth over his slick lower lip.

“Bedroom,” he urges simply, nudging her backwards.

“That is the _best_ idea,” she laughs and twists away from him, knowing full well that while still wearing heels she has a 100% chance of busting her ass if she doesn’t.  She yanks him back toward her room eagerly, and for a long moment he crowds her against the door, hands skimming hot and lazy over her dress.  She hears herself breathe, “Yeah, I’m gonna need you to get this off of me.”

“’Kay,” he agrees as they burst into the room.

She uses a hand on the doorknob to steady herself long enough to get those shoes off, and she’s only just gotten on bare feet when she feels him easing her zipper down.  When her back is bared, she presses flush into his chest as he shoves her dress down to the floor and lets her head fall back onto his shoulder.  Catching her lower lip between her teeth, she sighs pleasantly as he nibbles her neck in a way that makes her tingly.  She wraps her fingers loosely around his wrists as his hands skim from her belly to her chest.  A whimper escapes her that shutters into a giddy sort of laugh when he massages her breasts and she rocks back idly into him.  Before too long, though, she loses patience—and she’s been so, _so_ patient all night, she thinks she’s entitled—and whirls around to tug him towards the bed.  When she drops backward, he tumbles on top of her with a low chuckle that shakes through her.  Her head tips back as his fingers bury into her hair, and she clings to his shirt to hold him close.

His lips trip down her neck, his teeth stop briefly at her collarbone, and she arches and gasps at the too-gentle pressure.  A high-pitched whine escapes her when he drags teasing bites over her nipples—unthinkingly, she squeezes his hips with her knees and lets her nails dig into his shoulders.  He kisses a line down her belly, and, when she looks down, he’s watching her face as he drops to his knees and pulls her to the edge of the bed.  Her eyes fall shut and she lets out a low, needy noise as he sucks a bruise on her inner thigh before diving between her legs.

“God,” she moans falteringly, one heel digging into his back as the toes of her other foot press into the floor.  Her hips jerk with every quick lap of his tongue, and she lets out gentle noises of pleasure as little bolts of heat jolt through her.  He slows, and she lets out a shuddering whimper and grips the back of his head, tossing one arm across her eyes.  She can’t find it in herself to be mad—each touch is deliciously electrifying and she’s almost overwhelmed by it after the evening she’s had.  When he moans into her, she can’t help the way her entire body quivers.  His fingers push into her and her back arcs, and when she looks down, she can _tell_ he’s stroking himself just out of sight and all it does is fuel the heat building in her.  “Please,” she whines, and she doesn’t even know what she’s asking for but it’s the only thing she can think _please please more please God._

She’s so unbearably close to coming again when he stops, wrenching another plea out of her.  “Over,” he orders hoarsely as he stands.

Helpless to do anything but obey, she flips onto her stomach, toes pressing into the floorboards and forehead dipping into the bunched blanket under her, and feels his hands on her ass and hips and sides.  She’s _very_ aware of the fact that she has absolutely _not_ made good on her promise to make him suffer, but now all she can think of is her burning need.  She bites hard on her lip to stifle a cry when he thrusts his cock into her, hears with some satisfaction his hiss when she rocks back to meet him.  For a moment too long, he’s absolutely still, one hand on her shoulder, and she impatiently grinds back and relishes the groan it pulls out of him.

His thrusts are slow at first, steady but deep, and she pushes up on her elbows for better leverage to move in time with him, desperate for more.  Soon, though, the jerk of his hips speeds and she hears herself letting out a litany of low curses, and his hands scoop under her to grasp at her breasts, and she shoves up further to give him better access—then his teeth are at the back of her neck and _oh_ that’s good.  Her moans grow louder, more wanton as he drives into her, spurred on when he hooks his hand into the bend of her knee and drags it up onto the bed, and her fingers dig into the blanket.  It’s not as easy from this angle to buck back into him, but she’s so close it hardly even matters, bolts of tingly electricity shooting straight through her.

She can hear herself, however distantly, begging him not to stop as he drags her up for a slick, clumsy kiss, and every muscle burns and she digs her nails into his forearm as she gasps into his mouth.  Vaguely, she’s aware that he’s whispering small, thoughtless encouragements against her lips, and the heat in her builds and builds and builds until she doesn’t think she can _possibly_ take it anymore—until _finally_ she drops over that edge with a cry so loud her throat hurts but her toes are curling and she’s wracked with wave after wave of pleasure that leave her almost dizzy, and it’s a damn good thing he’s mostly holding her up because she’s reasonably certain her arm gave out.

No longer smooth, his thrusts are jerky and stuttering and she can hear in the way his moans have grown high-pitched and desperate that he’s _so close_ , and she kisses him again, a little messily, swallowing every sound and urging him on and on until his hips snap forward and his voice cracks around a loud whine.  Gasping, he presses his forehead, then his lips to her temple as his weight settles into her just a little and her elbow buckles and she gives a raw laugh as he presses her into the bed.  He drops lingering kisses to her cheek and ear and cheek as she comes down, as his breathing steadies.

Uncounted minutes pass before she strokes his arm absently and mumbles half-into the mattress, “This is _great_ but uncomfortable as hell.”

“Moment ruiner,” he snorts into her hair.

“Mm, stop trying to suffocate me,” she responds, and he pushes up off of her enough for her to wriggle, shaky and sleepy-sated further into the bed.

Eyelids drooping, she barely pays attention as he makes his slow, stumbling way to the far end of the room to catch the light— _aww,_ she thinks with a huff, _he cares about my electric bill_ —and she struggles her way under the comforter.  He climbs in behind her, curls around her.  She’s half-asleep when she hears him murmur, “Your sister was right, you know.”

Unable to muster the energy to work up any actual words, she just hums questioningly.

“We gotta do _that_ more often.”  She elbows him, but he only laughs.

**Author's Note:**

> This prompt really spoke to me on a soul-deep level, and I've been working on it for roughly seven years because porn is hard! Thanks to the anon who requested this because dear _Lord_ if I know anything about me, it's that this is right in my wheelhouse.
> 
> Thank you, as always, for reading! It means the world!
> 
> Swing by my [Tumblr](http://johnisntevendead.tumblr.com) if you haven't already!


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